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sympathy poem

havia três no prado pelo ribeiro
uma vez este turf macio
o ar está cheio do alvorecer e da mola
quando as horas do dia forem numeradas
flor branca da espuma, flor vermelha da flama
deve ir para trás, disse
os dias melancólicos vieram
o ar é como uma borboleta
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
f4-lo vêem sempre um jacaré

 



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